I met R2-D2 in 1996 at a Chicago Humane Society. Erich and I, as typical for people in floundering relationships, sought another being to share the love we did not give each other. We were told to arrive early, as the kittens went fast, and so we joined the jostle of other cat people when the doors opened that morning.

The wall of kittens was adorable, and even as early as we had arrived, I was afraid that we had been outwitted by others who picked a furry little creature and guarded it with their lives. There were few cages without potential parents cooing through the bars; one, however, was studiously avoided. A small eight-week-old male had mixed the contents of his water bowl with the sand they had given him for his litter; the resulting mud was flung contemptuously out at the gawking crowds. The label on the bars read “Fred.”

“Life will never be dull with Fred,” we concluded and asked to adopt him. This process was surprisingly quick, although he seemed none to happy about being removed from his cage and stuck into a cardboard box. As we left, the staff suddenly remembered that Fred had not yet been tagged with a microchip. They took him behind a screen and inserted it to the most furious howl I have ever heard from an animal before or since. I think that was the moment that Fred decided humans were not going to be a bed of roses. The confirmation of this impulse was probably when Erich and I changed his name to R2-D2, hoping he would achieve the same good nature as that gentle but incomprehensible android.

R2-D2 hated us from day one. He scratched and bit us when we tried to pet him, refused to cuddle anywhere near us, and whenever we tried to discipline him, he would jump up on the dining room table and knock all of the placemats off. The look of triumph that adorned his face during these incidents was unmistakable. When Erich and I went to Mexico and trusted him with a sitter, we convinced ourselves that R2 was pining away for us and even bought a statue of a puma that reminded us of his idealized form. When we arrived home, filled with love and nostalgia, he ran away and wouldn’t come out from under the couch. He lived to eat, however.

Several years after the time came for me to break up with Erich—but the moment when I finally got around to doing so—I told him that R2 should stay with him. I did not want either one of them to be lonely, I rationalized. I also rationalized not wanting to deal with him on a daily basis as I started grad school and a new business in a distant city. So I left them together when I moved away, and while I thought of him often, it was in the detached sort of way one contemplates a candy dish that adorned ones childhood living room. Erich got a new boyfriend and a new cat, and that family seemed to be doing fine without me. Except last night, I called Erich for his birthday and he told me that I had reached him on R2’s last night on earth. Mounting health problems had degenerated his quality of life to the point where they felt the kindest thing to do would be to end his suffering.

It’s hard for me to think of R2-D2 suffering; his goal had always been to cause suffering in others. When Erich told me the news, I had to get off the phone immediately so I could muffle my unexpected tears. By now, R2 is gone; nothing remains of that period in my life except vague animosity mixed with my love for my time in Chicago. Monster Foo Foo’s time may be next, and I don’t even want to contemplate filling in the blank of Goblin Foo Uvula: 2000 to ____. We measure passing time in these little furry lives that touch our souls and, in some cases, scratch our faces, and the world seems heavier as there are fewer to help us bear our burdens.

Rest in peace R2-D2.